


old scratch

by glassy_light



Category: The Witch (2016)
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22079992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassy_light/pseuds/glassy_light
Summary: Thomasin signs the devil's book.
Kudos: 15





	old scratch

Thomasin had been sitting at the table for hours now, her cheek pressed against the rough wood. She was cold in her shift, but gave herself up to it entirely, frozen as a statue and just as somber. When dark fell she let it, not moving to start a fire or light a taper. Fear had abandoned her; the beat of her heart was steady in her chest.

When she stood, pulling her mother's wrap tighter around her shoulders, and moved to the doorway, she was resolute in her actions. She did not spare her mother a glance, nor her father. The wreckage of the barn, the wreckage of her family. She moved through the chaos like a knife. The he-goat, crowned by his twisting horns, was looking equally as regal. Behind him was the goat shed, folded like paper under heavy magic and animal strength.

She thought in passing about picking up the knife where it lay in the grass, shining like the white belly of a toad, but abstained from it. Somehow, the action would betray her weakness. Thomasin was done with being weak.

The air was licking cold kisses onto her face: it was autumn and the chill of winter was waking somewhere deep in the woods. Absently she thought of how the light would shift, turn cool and gray like light through the windows they had in England. The light between her and the goat seemed glassy. Like it had turned thick and glazed, sparkling like eyes in firelight. Under the moon, everything was washed in silver.

They were close now; she could hear his breath like wind through the trees. Could hear the dry grass stir under his cloven hooves. His eyes were half-lidded, relaxed. Like this was something that might matter, or might not, but either way was nothing to him. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say his placid, face looked casual. Thomasin was the opposite. Her face was set into something grave.

A foot away, the beast turned with a toss of his great horned head, the stars glinting off them in sharp fractals that swam in her vision. She did not pause to reconsider, but followed into the shell of the barn, where the air was thick with the smell of animal sweat and sweet hay and blood.

In the dark, she could make out the silhouette of the animal as it paced the back of the shed. A stream of light fell coldly through the broken roof. In the distance, the woods began to come to life, the low hum of animal lungs carried on the wind. 

“I conjure thee to speak.”

A vacant silence. No, he would answer. She wiped clean her heart of doubt.

“Dost thou understand my English tongue?”

Another empty pause. She thought of prayer, and tried to bring a similar spirit to her request. In her mind she folded her hands. She thought of kneeling.

“Answer me.”

In the shadows, she thought she saw his figure churning, morphing into something else. She looked harder, squinted, but could see nothing. 

“What dost thou want?” Had this been days ago, she would have startled at the voice. A shock ran down her spine, but she stood sure-footed. It spoke in a whisper, baritone and rough as a cat’s tongue.

“What canst thou give?” She tried to sound commanding, kept her chin high and her hands steady at her sides. She hoped a show of strength would get her something.

“Wouldst thou like the taste of butter? A pretty dress? Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?” The devil was moving, the hay rustling against the sound of crickets.

“Yes.” She was whispering too now, her voice as low as his.

“Wouldst thou like to see the world?”

“What will you from me?” The darkness before her was moving again, but she still could not find him. His voice and the sound of his movements were the only things hinting at his presence.

“Dost thou see a book before thee?” He spoke it into life, a red-bound tome. It hung in the air, glowing with something hot and pulsing. A quill was in the air beside it, dripping dark ink onto the hay.

“Aye.” She tried to stop her gasp at the appearance of the book, but it happened all the same. Fear flooded her peripheral, but she pushed it from her mind.

“Remove thy shift.”

Thomasin had nothing else to turn to. Her hands fumbled with the bow at her neck, and she held her breath as it slipped from her shoulders. On the fringes of her vision he moved, his hooves traded for spurred boots. A hand gloved in dark lambskin, embroidered with gold and red, came to rest on her shoulder.

“I cannot write my name.” She did not think to be embarrassed. He would not turn her away.

“I will guide thy hand.” The Devil shifted behind her. The quill shook in her hand as he gripped her wrist. She could feel where his face rested against her temple; where his shirt brushed her back. His skin was cold, and he smelled of oranges and cloves. 

She knew then that maybe, all these years, her prayers were directed to the wrong spirit. Here was a God who would help her. Here was a God who would give her freedom. As the quill scratched out her name on the bone-white parchment, she felt her sorrows melt away.

**Author's Note:**

> dialogue taken from the film


End file.
